


In Flesh and Stone

by daviatella



Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassin - Freeform, Badass, Golems, will never be completed rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 02:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daviatella/pseuds/daviatella
Summary: First draft of the 1st chapter of something I'll likely never get back to, as once I finished it I realized I had no idea where it was going. Oops. Feedback to writing is still appreciated.Set in a somewhat steampunk world where metallic golems are commonplace, a young assassin's path intertwines with a golem sculptor's.





	In Flesh and Stone

**In Flesh and Stone - Chapter 1**

  


Moonlight crept through an open window in an otherwise dark, mundane room, the cold wind blowing against expensive red drapes creating specters in the shadows beneath. Every few seconds, a noise unceremoniously interrupted its incessant howling, one familiar to most if not all people: the periodic dripping of water against the floor. With the current circumstances, however, it was easy to see how a bystander would be confused. No signs of rain were present outside; the chamber in particular, being an office, had no place for taps; all of which, in the end, begged the question: what was the source of said noise?

 

Soon enough, a lone man entered the room to shed light upon the scene and with it, the mystery as well, bearing uninterest in his expression as if it was another of the many badges displayed across his chest. “Mr. Cresswell, I-” He spoke softly, promptly turning a switch onto the wall to spark the light bulbs above with life, before being swiftly interrupted by his own surprise, a short gasp escaping his lips. Afront him, the man known as Alexander Cresswell sat in a large armchair, surrounded by a pool of his own blood that dripped from the back of his head like a leaking faucet, his mouth as agape as the blatant shock in his still-open eyes.

 

“SECURITY!” He shouted, running to the man’s body, unable to keep his gaze from desperately inspecting it with anything but focus. Shortly, an increasingly larger number of men and women began to invade the scene with mirrored reactions of astonishment, all of them now deeply intrigued by the thought that out there stood someone mad – and powerful – enough to kill one of the richest and most influential men on the country under the roof of his own mansion, well guarded and secured.

 

Surely enough, his killer now found herself running across the windy rooftops, seeking to avoid the curfew guards that patrolled beneath, most accompanied by large stone creatures by their side. It had been Beatrice Lewis’ first successful stint in her newest hobby, though certainly not her last; tomorrow, the front pages of every newspaper would announce the murder not with a picture of the corpse, but with one that showed the only piece of evidence left behind: a small, dark card with five words scribbled in white at its center: _The Nightcrawler sends her regards._

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

“...and I still can’t fathom how terrible the name you’ve chosen is! I mean, _The Nightcrawler_? Aren’t you a little too old for those books?”

 

“Dad, I’ve told you before, The Nightcrawler is a female symbol for women of all ages, and those _books_ are timeless classics!”  

 

“Bea, a nightcrawler is a kind of worm. That’s what you’re comparing yourself to. Now if you'll excuse me, these papers need grading.” With a final sigh, the gray haired man quietly made his way towards a table covered by papers at the other end of the small room, complete with a wooden floor that creaked with every step and a carpet that probably smelled less terribly a few months ago. As the opposing girl had adequately remembered, today marked the first anniversary of  her career as Adenbay’s latest assasin – how could she not, when every wall stood covered by framings of old newspapers and souvenirs.

 

The sole exception to this rule stood in front of her; instead of the usual clippings, every inch of its dusty surface was plastered with dozens upon dozens of black and white pictures, each of them a different face among the crowd that infested its area, as crooked as the people depicted all over it. Their only thing in common, however, was the sole fact that their actions had elicited enough rage for her to deem them worthy of her service. Cresswell, for instance, had inadvertently caused thirty deaths by overlooking the many faults present in one of his many factories, though back then Beatrice thought of herself as far more clueless. Nowadays, she employed the greatest tool she could’ve found to decide The Nightcrawler’s next target: a pointy dart, sitting in a shelf beneath. What else could a twenty year old girl possibly need?

 

As per routine, her tireless fingers toyed with the small object before walking away from the collection, though never averting her gaze, and with a swift movement that pierced through the previous silence, her next target had been chosen. With no more than a smirk towards the old man who silently watched, who currently avoided the mountain of paperwork beside him like the plague, she left the room to don her uniform; the job called for her, after all.

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

While the news Beatrice’s endeavor spread like wildfire across the island during the night, the second axis of this story slept quite profoundly in his home, miles away from Adenbay in one of the many small mining districts that populated the foot of Mount Lúpin, the very same one in which the famed mineral Astrium had been first unearthed years prior. Although many found success in the business, this miner in particular had been less-than-lucky thus far. Today, on the other hand, that might finally change.

Frank Hopper woke up with a jolt, feeling the warm sunlight that leaked through half-shut blinds sweat against his skin. A mixture of fear and anticipation spread across his face as soon as his eyes came open, for him, an ordinary day. His bedroom – too small to be described in more than one sentence – shook with excitement as he rose enthusiastically. Crudely drawn schematics along with black and white photographs covered every surface from border to border, all depicting variations upon variations of the same strange creature, most hybridizing what looked like a mixture of metal and stone.

 

His hand pushed the wooden door open to reveal the inside of a nearly decrepit factory, complete with its cracked concrete walls and thick smell of coal, despite its many years of retirement. Instead of the usual rusty machinery, three rough constructions of white marble sat in the middle of the room, where a trio of men discussed business – two of them almost resembling large, white tigers whilst the other used its front limbs for support, sitting onto its hinder ones with a bodily structure that felt closer to an eight foot tall gorilla . “How much for each, Paz?” One of them asked, with a stern expression that was emboldened by the military clothes he wore beneath. “I’ll have you know Mayer’s price has– oh, it seems Copper has finally decided to show himself.” He chuckled, turning to face the approaching intruder.

 

“Good to see you too, general! While I would prefer to be better dressed, since you’re already here let’s just move on.” Frank returned nonchalantly, sheepishly looking down at his own sleazy t-shirt and pants combo, each one battling the other for the highest number of stains and small holes. “I trust my colleague has already introduced today’s haul?” He proceeded, swiveling his gaze to stop at Salvio Paz, his long–time partner and current bearer of one of the most disappointed expressions he’d ever seen.

 

“No, I’m afraid he hasn’t. Let’s move on, as you say.” The white haired man sighed, giving the soldier behind him a sideways glance. “The two of us trust you enough as a sculptor, even with... past events taken into account.”

 

“Great!” He grinned, arms opened wide. “Now, due to that special   _Hopper quality_ that you’ve certainly heard of – seventy percent marble, thirty percent astrium – each one of these will go for about… eighty pieces of gold. How does that sound?” His eyebrows rose for a second as his hands flew to non-existent pockets, settling for the awkward spot beside his legs. “I can activate them right here, right now!”

 

“What do you say, son?” The general intoned, turning to face the younger man once again, and with the reception of a nod back, he smiled, almost forcefully. “Well then, move on with it. Where’s your Anima?”

 

“Over here.” This time, it was Salvio’s turn to speak. The long-haired man currently pulled a strange contraption from the other end of the chamber – a long, metallic tube with several discs in its length, ending in a wide sphere that sat atop, standing onto a small platform with wheels. “Hopper’s built it himself.”

 

“Impressed?”  Frank promptly asked, smirking at the older man with hands stoically gripping his sides.

 

“Concerned.” He calmly replied, with no discernible change in tone or expression, gaze locked with the strange machine.

 

Once the dozen or so cables had been each connected to its respective spots and the platform sat in the middle of the three inanimate beasts, bare seconds separated  Frank’s life into _before this moment_ and _after this moment_ – the end of most successful sale by far, involving three full size golems no less. With one twitching hand lowering goggles onto his eyes and the other pulling down a lever connected to the wall, an unstable electric sparks promptly travelled across the fallen wires and into the sphere atop. A bright blue glow began to emanate from the metallic formation, only ceasing once a loud burst of energy connected each golem to its circumference by a thick bolt that danced statically in the air between – prisoners with newfound chains.    

 

Slowly but surely, the trio of statues was no more. Their joints crackled with life as small movements filled the air with the scent of metal, each coursing with visible electricity until Frank’s now trembling hand pulled back the lever, staring proudly at the group of newborns. The three other men, standing at varying degrees of distance from the scene, could only gawk, interest plastered onto their faces like a second skin.  At first, the white beasts’ actions were simple; babies, discovering their own bodies. Though once the low sound of grinding stone filled the air – coming from inside one of the quadruped’s mouth – the olive skinned man decided it best to speed things up. “So, Mr. general’s son, would you- would you please give me a sample of your blood?” He stammered, each word closer to fully making him shake in nervousness, even if a crooked smile stayed constant on his expression.

 

“Ah, right.” The man sighed, stopping to prickle his left index finger with a small needle, that then returned to his pocket dripping red. His slow approach was interrupted, though not by an unexpected source – with a loud thud, Frank now laid against the floor as the crude sculpture stood above him, pressing down onto his shoulder with one of its paws. To his misfortune, the one in particular was made of heavy metal. At the sight of the attack, the soldier’s steps quickened in pace until his hand touched the figure’s back, blood seeping into astrium to bond the two into master and servant. “Step back.” He ordered, and surely enough, the beast obeyed, tracing back its steps to sit beside its new ruler.

 

Despite the occurrence – or due to the incident – the sound of laughter promptly exploded from within Frank, who stood to shake hands once the process had been repeated with the remaining golems. “It was very good to make business with you gentlemen!” He exclaimed, patting the man on the shoulder with visible excitement. “When should we be expecting pay?”

 

“By tomorrow morning.” The older man affirmed, motioning for the soldier to follow. “Farewell then, Hopper.” With their backs turned and headed for the exit – humans and golems alike – all that now remained from the endeavor were the two men laughing by themselves in the center of the room, though it was clear one had taken more joy from the occasion.

 

“Did he- did he just get my name right?!” He laughed, eyes as wide as his open mouth. “Now _this,_ this is is our cue to celebrate!” His arms closed around Salvio’s body, tightly holding the man in an embrace that, although one-sided, exuded nothing but happiness. “Our reputation will grow like a weed!”

 

“What do you propose we do then, _Copper_?” The hispanic man replied, pushing Frank back to cross his arms onto his chest. “A toast? Maybe some new tools?”

 

“Think bigger, my friend! Tomorrow, we are going to Madame Charbonneau’s party, using the money!”

 

“The one with… snobby rich people?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

It was clear from the moment the man’s name left Frank’s mouth – and the consequential fall of Salvio’s mood – that his expectations were going to wildly different places. Even so, he remained hopeful. Frank’s decision making was not always the best, but when it succeeded, it did in the last way he would’ve seen coming. Surprisingly – or not, – his optimism only took a turn for the worst once he remembered Frank Hopper of all people would be his companion.  ‘ _Oh gods, please help us.’_

 

____________________________________________________________________________

  


“ _On today’s news, the mysterious Nightcrawler has claimed yet another victim! Elisa Alltor, the owner of Alltor Banks, has been found dead in….”_

 

“Why do you even listen to the radio? It’s not like I hadn’t told you about that hag yesterday.”

 

“Let me have this, Beatrice. You’re not that far from ruining it for me.” With a grunt that could only be described as passive aggressive, the room was once again left with the muffled static voice emanating from the device – only interrupted by the occasional scribbles of the man’s feather. Beatrice, meanwhile, casually launched small knives at the opposing wall, aiming for an old picture of herself.

 

While most simply hit the surface and fell, each one that stuck against the wood increased her boredom tenfold. Maybe she’d go out for once, hit up the local tavern, perhaps meet-up with Billy, talk about the latest Nightcrawler- “ _...and now, some good news for our literature lovers! Trusted sources tell us the identity of the author of the famous_ Nightcrawler _novels shall be revealed at Madame Charbonneau’s annual gala! For those unaware, in the past five years a collection of anonymous novels has-”_

 

“WHAT?!” The girl suddenly screamed, letting go of the few blades in her hand.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re-”

 

“Oh, I am!” She interrupted, crouching to pick up the fallen objects as a wide smile slid into her face like smooth butter. “You bet I am.” Her back turned against the old mas as her gaze locked with a single face among the collection opposing her – who else, but Lisbeth Charbonneau. In her defense, she couldn’t care less about the old wench; the only reason she’d attend the stupid gathering was to meet her one true idol.

 

“Do you have any idea how dangerous this could be? What if you get caught, or ambushed by those metal freaks?!” Albert Lewis – previously sitting, now up with both hands slammed against the desk beneath – stared worryingly at his daughter. Changing her mind had always been as difficult as gripping sardines, nevertheless, he took the effort again and again; the words he so loudly shot simply hit against her ears and fell like the knives she threw earlier.

 

In response, Beatrice chuckled. Her left arm rose – dart in hand, ready for the launch – as she prepared for the unique sensation of direction. Time and time again the object aimlessly left her grip, headed straight for the wall, but not today. Maybe just this once, she would aim. Silence draped the room like a blanket.

 

_Bullseye_

  
  
  


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